


Puh for Picasso

by nauticus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Autism, Backstory, Brothers, Childhood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Sibling Love, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticus/pseuds/nauticus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their parents oftentimes think that Sherlock can't understand them, but Mycroft knows differently. Sometimes words aren't necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puh for Picasso

**Author's Note:**

> Please pay attention to the tags!
> 
> This is a bit more backstory for the 2+2=5 verse and you do not have to read 2+2=5 to understand what's going on in this, though it does make things a bit more bittersweet in the long run if you do!
> 
> This has been beta'd and britpicked by my buddy [Pala!](http://bennyslegs.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I have a [ tumblr](http://nauticus.tumblr.com/) that I use to post writing updates and other fandom-y things, if you feel so inclined to take a gander.

Mycroft looks up from his book on the history of the whaling industry when the sound of bubbles fills the room again. He's just this side of too young to fully understand the irony, but he grins anyway as eleven year old boys are wont to do at inappropriate times. 

There's an exasperated sigh from their father and their mother doesn't even lift her nose from the pile of envelopes she's addressing; thank you cards to the people that came to his birthday event last weekend, most likely. 

Sherlock, being the cause of the bubble sounds, is entirely and completely absorbed in a ridiculous book his therapists had left behind for him that week. Mycroft thinks that they're too stupid for Sherlock. They're meant for babies who might enjoy the too brightly coloured pages and the stripped down variation of one of the classics, but not Sherlock. It's obvious that Sherlock has no interest in the actual story anyway. 

It’s The Little Mermaid and Mummy won't let him read Sherlock the proper story just yet, because it might give him nightmares, and it's already difficult enough getting Sherlock to sleep as it is. 

But this book has buttons along the side that provide sound effects to enhance the story for Sherlock, for whom auditory stimulation seems most important right now, or so the therapists have said. Sherlock responds to sounds he likes better than ones he doesn't, but it's still just a bit annoying. 

A soft _bloop bloop bloop_ and a piercing little laugh from Sherlock cause their father to close his newspaper with a loud crinkle. Mycroft's smile slowly disappears, and he thinks that he should have moved Sherlock's attentions to something else, something a bit more suited to quiet family time, before this point, if only because he knows exactly what's coming next. 

Their father's foot steps vibrate the floorboards with such force Mycroft can feel it across the room. It's no wonder that Sherlock flinches away by his space being suddenly invaded by the man looming above him. The great, big smile that's usually on Sherlock's face when he's truly happy is gone now, replaced with a wide eyed wonder that soon morphs into shock as his book is snatched from his hands and placed on the top of the bookshelf. 

Sherlock hops along behind his father, pointing at the book now far out of his reach and making concerned little noises until their father crouches down and puts his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock looks at a spot on the wall behind his father and then back to his book on the shelf, stomping his foot and pointing. 

"No, you aren't getting it back right now. I told you to put the book away and find something else to do," he says, shaking Sherlock just a bit to get his attention. "And if you want something, you _ask_ for it. Your pointing and grunting will get you nothing." 

He returns to his armchair, muttering under his breath about how useless the therapists are if they're not even teaching Sherlock to speak properly. The therapists had told them both time and again that it isn't going to happen over night. Some days, Sherlock shows interest in making vowel and consonant sounds, and the next day, he prefers to use his signs. It's utter nonsense in his opinion. He isn't paying these people to teach his son that using signs is an appropriate way to communicate. He has half a mind to fire them. 

"Siger, really," Mummy sighs. "You're doing more harm than good. Just let him have his book. It's keeping him occupied and out of trouble." 

"It's driving me _mad_ ," comes the terse reply from her husband. 

"He'll have a tantrum," she points out, jabbing her pen in his direction. "And you can be the one to deal with it. _Appropriately_." 

"I swear to God, Lydia, you just want to coddle the boy, instead of addressing the issues that need to be fixed." 

"I'll remind you kindly that your son is not broken. He's not one of those freakish animal skeletons you insist on gluing back together again." 

"He's certainly not whole, if that's what you're implying." 

Though Mycroft pretends to be immersed in his book so he's not noticed and sent from the room, he doesn't miss the sharp look his mother gives his father, her pale eyes flashing with a mother's anger, nor does he miss seeing the flinch from the man. 

What Mummy was implying is never found out as not even a moment later, a loud crash and a few loud, unmistakable cracks break through the intense silence. All heads turn towards the sound to find Sherlock standing by a pile of books he's pulled from the shelf in an attempt to get to his own. From his spot, Mycroft sees several of their father's favourite antique books lying page down with massive splits down their spines. A few even have entire sections of pages missing and lying a few feet away from their covers. 

Mycroft knows what the beginning of a war looks like and his heart sinks. 

"Goddamn it!" their father roars, loud enough to cause Mycroft to shrink back into his chair. He can't see his brother, but he imagines Sherlock to be doing the same. " _This_ is what I'm talking about, Lydia! His absolute disregard for _everything_!" 

He's across the room with just a few purposeful strides and Sherlock backs into the corner, but their father grabs his upper arm too tightly, and practically drags him across the floor and to the doors of the sitting room. Sherlock squirms and cries out in that way he has, tiny and inefficient fingers prying at his father's bigger ones. 

Mycroft understands what Sherlock's little cries mean, despite the sounds not pulling together to form proper words. Distress is distress in any language, and so is pain, because Mycroft has heard that whimper and that scared squeak before when their father takes it upon himself to knock some sense into Sherlock, as though it does any good. Mycroft knows _exactly_ what it means. 

After two heavy-handed strikes, their father sets Sherlock down on his feet in the hall and shuts the doors. 

"For God's sake, Siger! He's just a baby! Was that really necessary?" 

"A baby? He's four, Lydia. _Four_." 

A moment later and Sherlock's shock has worn off enough that he starts wailing. Mycroft can see him through the glass and he watches as both of Sherlock's little hands cover his mouth as fat tears drip down from his eyes and over his pink knuckles. He nudges at the door with his foot, and then hits his palm against the glass panes, shouting muffled babbles. He hasn't figured out door knobs yet, something for as much as their father wants him to be _normal_ , he wishes Sherlock will never learn about for the very simple fact that it keeps him _out_. 

Sherlock knows he's done a bad thing. He wants his father to know that he is sorry. He even has a sign for 'sorry' that he uses a lot when Mycroft tells him he's supposed to. He wants to show that he can do good things too, and that he's learning the difference. All he needs is just a bit more practice. 

But what he never understands is why his things are taken from him and why he's punished for trying to get them back. He knows he must say please and thank you when he wants to use other people's things. He isn't perfect at it yet, but only Mycroft says please and thank you to him. Other people, their parents and the therapists, just take and Sherlock is never asked if he feels like giving. 

The atmosphere in the sitting room is suffocating and toxic. Mycroft isn't stupid and he knows when his parents are having one of their nasty arguments. The unsaid things, the looks and the frustrated sighs are sometimes worse than the actual words, he thinks. 

Eventually, when she trusts herself to speak calmly again, Mummy looks at Mycroft and says, "Why don't you go outside for a bit, sweetheart? Take your brother to the nursery and then go play outside. Your father and I need some privacy." 

She doesn't need to ask twice. Mycroft is up and out of his chair, halfway to the door before she even finishes asking. He knows, too, an oncoming storm when he sees one. They always happen after their father looses his temper with Sherlock, and it's best to get out of the way while it happens. 

Sherlock isn't right outside the door like Mycroft thought he might be. Instead, he finds his little brother sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, hanging onto the baluster and gnawing on his shirt collar. His eyes are red and his nose is running, not having calmed down quite yet. He bursts into tears again the second he notices Mycroft standing before him. 

Sometimes, he cries for attention, Mycroft knows, but this isn’t one of those times. 

"Are you all right, tootsie?" he asks quietly. 

It's obvious that Sherlock is very much not all right, and Mycroft doesn't blame him. Their father's spankings are meant to make a point, and Sherlock is so very small that it doesn't take much. 

Sherlock signs "mother" and "please" frantically. 

"You can't… You can't see her right now. She's talking to Father." 

Mycroft knows better than to interrupt their parents while they're in the process of having an argument, and even though Sherlock cries harder and he repeats the signs again and again, he knows he can't risk getting them into more trouble. Sherlock being in the middle of a meltdown is sure to not end well, and it's more for Sherlock's sake than his own that he decides to distract him from what he wants. 

"I'm reading about whaling," Mycroft says, scooping Sherlock up and holding him on his hip. 

He's finally tall enough to hold Sherlock the way their mother does, and Sherlock clings to him with all his strength, pressing his wet eyes into Mycroft's shoulder. 

"Whaling in Britain, actually. It a little boring, but I have to read _something_ over summer holidays. Mr. Simmons says so. Well _I_ says Mr. Simmons is an idiot." Mycroft hitches Sherlock higher up on his hip and goes to the window, turning so Sherlock can see the garden. "Hundreds of years ago they used to use whale oil for lamps and candles. I thought it must stink, but the book says that oil from sperm whales was more favourable because it didn't have an odour. I don't know if I believe that. I bet they all smelled so bad then that they couldn't even tell the difference between their own farts and their candle sticks." 

Mycroft snorts into Sherlock's shoulder, finding himself to be very clever. He hears Sherlock's breath hitch a little bit, then a quiet sniffle follows. He knows he needs to keep talking, keep distracting Sherlock, because Sherlock is at the point now where he can tip either way: back into hysteria or forward into something new. 

"In the twentieth century- that's this century, but a really long time ago- they got electricity, so they didn't need their smelly candles. Do you know what they used to do with the oil then? They used to put it in margarine! _Blech_! I'd rather have plain toast then. You'd be fine though. You don't even like toast." 

For a moment, Mycroft is certain that Sherlock is sleeping, but then he jabs his foot into Mycroft's belly. Mycroft grabs the small foot and gives it a quick tickle and is rewarded with a series of snorts and giggles as Sherlock tries to tuck his feet out of reach. Mycroft then knows that the worst of it has passed. 

The book seems to still be on Sherlock's mind though, despite his eyes being dry now, because not two seconds after he sets him down Sherlock is wandering back towards the sitting room door, and from inside, the argument seems to have finally reached the almost shouting phase of things. He takes Sherlock by the hand and tugs him gently the other way. 

"Do you want to do an experiment?" Mycroft asks, hopping a little hop after Sherlock does. "A real one too. Like real scientists do in their laboratories. Well, they probably don't do this exact experiment, but they got their starts somewhere. I don't have a microscope, so we can't look at things. But real science isn't just about looking through a microscope all of the time. Yes, see, 'S' is for _science_ and-and _scientists_ and _Sherlock_. And you're Sherlock and also a scientist for right now." 

Mycroft keeps talking to Sherlock as he gathers the things they will need for their experiment, letting Sherlock carry the small box that holds all sorts of different objects: a silver spoon, aluminium foil, bits of loose paper, pens and pencils, pebbles and leaves from the garden, toy blocks, foam numbers borrowed from Sherlock's therapy basket, and a few of the fidget toys Sherlock likes to carry in his pockets. 

It's looking to be a good and proper experiment until Mycroft walks into the bathroom and turns to find Sherlock standing hesitantly in the doorway, looking between him and the bathtub with extreme wariness. He shifts his weight on his feet and shakes his head, letting out a small whine before he sticks his fingers back into his mouth. His big, blue eyes are full of suspicion. Their mother and father tell Sherlock all sorts of lies to get him into the bath, and the end result is always a hysterical Sherlock and a drenched parent or two. 

Glancing over his shoulder at the tub and then back at his brother, Mycroft grins and holds his hand out for Sherlock's. "It's not bath time," he tells him. "I promise." 

Sherlock shakes his head again and refuses to budge. 

"Come on, Sherlock. You can't do the experiment from out there. I promise, _promise_ you don't have to take a bath. Cross my heart. See, I made a cross over my heart. Means I can't break it or _else_." 

They stand and stare at one another for a few moments longer, Sherlock still looking doubtful as he finally slides his slobbery hand into Mycroft's, who makes sure to hide the way his nose wrinkles up at his now sticky palm. It isn't as though he can't hold his hand under the tap in a moment anyway, so it's a small price to pay as he gently tugs Sherlock into the bathroom and shuts the door. 

He sets the box on the ground and turns the knobs to fill the tub, sticking his hand under the lukewarm water for a moment until he hears a sharp cry coming from behind him. When he turns, he sees Sherlock hopping up and down desperately and pawing at his hair and his ears until his pale skin is flushed bright red. It takes Mycroft a long moment to figure out that this isn't Sherlock's usually happy hopping, but rather his unsettled and uncomfortable hopping, and it takes him even longer to figure out what the problem actually is, finding himself wishing that his brother could do more than just shout and babble at him, if only to save Sherlock from any more discomfort than necessary. 

Mycroft quickly turns the water off, though the tub isn't full enough just yet. The lights go off next, the only light now spilling in from the window above the bathtub, casting them both in hazy afternoon glow. Sherlock falls silent almost instantly and Mycroft sighs in relief. He wonders then if it ever occurs to their parents that perhaps the reason Sherlock dislikes his bath time so much is because the bathroom is a very unsettling place. Sounds echo loudly off the tiles and reverberate, light grows in intensity, and for Sherlock who is so easily over stimulated, it must be agonizing, and Mycroft feels guilty for not thinking of it first. 

Sherlock strikes the bathroom door once with an open palm, the fingers of his other hand having found their way back into his mouth. Their parents don't like Sherlock sucking on his fingers and the therapists worn against it, but Mycroft isn't them, so he gently takes the hand that slapped the door and rubs it gently between his own instead. The reddening skin of Sherlock's palm must tingle and Mycroft puts pressure on the reddest spots until Sherlock leans heavily into him, draping himself over his brother's shoulder with a sniffle. 

"I'm sorry, tootsie, I forgot." 

Their parents oftentimes think that Sherlock can't understand them, but Mycroft knows differently, especially when Sherlock gives him a hug and a wet kiss on the cheek. Sometimes words aren't necessary. 

A few hesitant moments pass by before Mycroft sits beside the tub and Sherlock follows, sitting on the floor between his brother's knees. 

"I'm going to turn the water on again, but I'll cover your ears so it won't be so loud. All right?" 

The stream of water starts off slowly, just a trickle creating gentle ripples in the water already there, but Mycroft slowly twists the knob again until the tap is roaring. Sherlock rears back, knocking his head against Mycroft's shoulder, but he's there, pressing his hands over Sherlock's tiny ears. His fingers disappear into the mop of dark curls and he thinks that he can feel the tension and fear draining out of his brother like this. Sherlock starts rocking after a few moments, bracing himself with a hand on the porcelain and another on Mycroft's knee. 

It's soothing; this simple moment is, because so often things are too loud and unbearable with Sherlock's meltdowns or their mother and father fighting over anything and everything. The only true peace he gets is when everybody is asleep, or moments like this, where it's just him and just Sherlock. He enjoys his brother's company and he likes to think that Sherlock enjoys his as well, if the way that Sherlock never likes to be too far away from him is anything to go by, and honestly, Mycroft likes it. He likes reading to Sherlock and he likes talking to him, even if it's rather one sided a lot of the time. He hopes this experiment is something Sherlock enjoys, something that will replace the memory of their father spanking him and taking away his book. 

The water has been deep enough for a few moments now, but Sherlock looks utterly content, tapping his fingers along the edge of the bathtub until he pauses and then hesitantly reaches forward. The water hits his hand and Sherlock squeals in delight, wriggling up onto his knees. Mycroft goes with him, being sure to keep Sherlock's ears covered as his sibling grabs at the water flowing from the tap. Sherlock's little chirps of excitement have Mycroft grinning in the moments he has before he has to lean over him and turn the water off or risk the tub overflowing. 

He reaches into the settling water and loosens the plug for a moment, letting water drain until it's the right depth again. Sherlock looks at the water in amazement and sticks his arm in until his shirt sleeve is soaked. Mycroft barely catches him around the middle before he flops in headfirst. 

"All right, we're scientists now and we have to be serious about our jobs, because science is serious," Mycroft says, setting Sherlock down on his feet and reaching for the box. "We're going to see if this stuff floats or sinks and then _why_ it floats or sinks. I learned about this when I was nine, but you're smart, so I think you'll get it, even if you're only four. Sherlock, pay attention now. You have to pay attention." 

Sherlock is paying attention; it's just not towards Mycroft. He's busy leaning over the side of the tub and dragging his hand through the warm water, watching ripples and little waves crash against the sides. He only sits up when Mycroft makes him and only then it's with a pout and a sound Mycroft takes to mean he wants to keep playing in the water. 

"Yes, in a minute. I'm trying to teach you about _science_ , Sherlock. It's _serious_." 

Sherlock finally gives in and sits back down on his knees in front of Mycroft, looking up at him expectantly, mouth agape and eyes bright and curious. He's about to begin talking again when he notices how badly Sherlock's nose is running and how very little this seems to be bothering him. It's not _his_ nose though, Mycroft reasons, but he stops trying to convince himself it's not a bother when Sherlock sniffs really hard and the snot slides back up into his nose. 

"That's disgusting," he mutters, ripping off a length of toilet paper from the roll and holding it up to Sherlock's nose. "Blow." 

Mycroft barely manages to suppress a gag as he tosses the used tissue into the bin. Sherlock just grins at him. 

" _Anyway_ ," he begins again now that he's got his brother's attention and noses have been taken care of. "I'm going to teach you about the scientific method, because it's really important and you use it a lot when you're a scientist and sometimes even when you're not one. There are six steps, see? One, two, three, four, five, six. One for each finger here. Yes- _ow_! Fingers don't bend that way! One step for each finger to help you solve-Sherlock, don't do that-problems. Step one: state your problem, which is obvious." 

"Ah!" Sherlock mimics, bouncing on his knees. 

" _Obvious_ ," Mycroft repeats. 

"Ah! Ah!" 

"That's really close! Now, for step two. You must research your problem. Step three: create a… a _hypothesis_. Um, try to figure out what the solution to the problem will be. Make a guess. Step four: experiment! That's the fun part. Step five: write down the results of your experiments, which is very important. Step six: is the finish. The conclusion. You look at your results and then at your hypotheth- _hypothesis_ and see if you were right or wrong. So our problem is we don't know if the things in this box will sink or float, and I've already done research on this experiment, because I did it in school, so we can make guesses now." 

Mycroft lets Sherlock pick an object from the box; the silver spoon that Sherlock holds aloft and then immediately throws into the bathtub with a _plunk_ and a splash. 

" _No_ , Sherlock! You're supposed to…" 

With Sherlock's suddenly gleeful laughter filling up the small space, Mycroft can't bring himself to scold his brother for deviating from the rules of the experiment. And besides, Sherlock is barely four years old; he can't really be blamed for his excitement at the prospect of throwing things into water just to see if it makes a splash, after all. When Sherlock's older, Mycroft will teach him how to be properly serious about experiments, but for right now, he lets Sherlock stand on his thighs so he can see and keeps a firm hold on him as he tosses things one by one into the water with noises varying from happy little chirps when something makes a big splash, to pensive little hums when the foam numbers make a bit of an anticlimactic flop onto the surface. 

Sherlock reaches in and presses down on a foam number six with his index finger until it's submerged, until he's pressing it flat against the bottom of the bathtub, his fingers splayed and distorted from the rippling. His arm is wet up past his elbow now and Mycroft tightens his arm around Sherlock's belly. The last thing they need is to explain how and why Sherlock managed to fall into the bathtub. 

"The numbers float and the spoon sinks," Mycroft says quietly as Sherlock lifts his hand and the foam slinks back up to the surface. "The foam floats because it doesn’t weigh as much as the water. And the spoon sinks because it weighs more than the water and more water is dis-displaced. Here take this pebble and see if it floats or sinks." 

The pebble hits the bottom with a quiet click and Sherlock says, "Puh!" 

" _Puh_ for pebble!" 

The therapists say that Sherlock is _finally_ beginning to show interest in using real words, and not the little babbles he so often tries to engage others in. They're supposed to encourage Sherlock in this, and he supposes their parents are trying as best as they can, but he doesn't understand how pointing at things and saying the object's name very slowly is going to be of any help to Sherlock whatsoever. What use is a four-year-old going to have for vases and sculptures and paintings by long dead artists? Mycroft never hears Sherlock happily repeating 'puh for Picasso', that's for certain. 

And besides, he's not entirely sure what the harm is. It isn't as though Sherlock _can't_ communicate. It's that others don't know _how_ to communicate with him, and Mycroft knows he's only eleven, just barely so and unwise about most of the world, but he can tell when his little brother is happy and just how happy it makes Sherlock when someone puts some effort into speaking with him. People speak _at_ Sherlock. The therapists speak at him; their mother and father speak at him. They assume they know already what Sherlock wants and needs, but they don't know. They never do. Sometimes, he thinks that he's the only one that knows Sherlock exactly as he is. 

When did it become such a bad thing to speak with Sherlock in a way that feels comfortable to him? 

Mycroft hasn't forgotten how much trouble he got in when their mother and father discovered he had been teaching Sherlock sign language. It was then that Mycroft got the first dose of 'we don't want a damaged child, we want a fully functional and _whole_ one'. There must have been other instances, but it was the first time it had really sunk in for him. It was the first time he heard the word _autistic_. Sherlock isn't just Sherlock to other people, this rambunctious little boy that is curious about a lot of things and likes stacking books and blocks, who hops around on his tip-toes and squeaks and claps when he is happy. Sherlock is _disabled_ , a broken little thing that their mother and father feel like they must rebuild into the proper order again. 

Eleven years old is a bit young to be having such serious thoughts, even for Mycroft who is quite the serious youth. But even he isn't immune to feeling like a lost child sometimes, if only for the fact that he is. Sometimes, he's afraid to grow up because grown ups are so harsh. He doesn't want to become like their parents, especially their father. He doesn't want to hurt his baby brother, and he pulls Sherlock back against him in a tight hug that Sherlock only protests for a moment before he goes limp and paws his wet hand through Mycroft's hair. 

"I think you're really smart," Mycroft says quietly. "Even when you're really loud and screaming and being kind of annoying. And even when you ruin experiments, because sometimes experiments get ruined and that's why you repeat them." 

And their experiment has been ruined, but Mycroft isn't upset about it, and it's obvious that Sherlock isn't either. It's worth it in the end, because Sherlock has forgotten his book for the time being and they're both playing quietly together, avoiding the storm front of their parent's argument. He always tries to protect Sherlock from that, because he's seen enough of Sherlock being absolutely terrified and overwhelmed by the shouting and accusations and the angry fingers pointed at him. 

Sherlock hooks his legs over the edge of the tub and wriggles until his toes skim across the water. Mycroft definitely knows where this is headed and before Sherlock can even begin to fight for it, Mycroft stands, lifting Sherlock up with him. 

"Don't think I don't know what you're after," he tells Sherlock, very matter-of-factly, but he smiles and lifts Sherlock into the tub. 

The pebbles skid across the bottom and foam and bits of foil hit and bounce off his legs as Sherlock lifts his foot out of the water. He looks back over his shoulder at Mycroft in awe before he purposefully steps on a piece of foam and squishes it between his foot and the porcelain. The now flattened zero sends up a pitiful stream of bubbles through Sherlock's toes before he releases it and bends down just a little to watch it's journey back up. 

The carefully calculated steps Sherlock takes those first few moments soon fade into more lively stomping, an overjoyed chorus of giggles and other playful sounds echo off the walls, turning what appears to be a dim and gloomy bathroom into a place of pure contentment for the both of them. Mycroft snorts and holds onto both of Sherlock's hands tightly to make sure he doesn't slip and hurt himself, ignoring completely the water that sloshes over the side and onto the floor and all over his trousers. He can mop it up with towels later, but for right now, Sherlock is having the time of his life and who is Mycroft to interrupt such a moment when his little brother seems to be so utterly content with how things are right in that moment. 

There are no therapists to slap his hand and grab his chin when Sherlock looses focus. There are no parents there to tell Sherlock to be quiet and go to the nursery to sit alone until one of them remembers to bring him back down for supper. There is no moment of disappointed silence before their father goes off on Mycroft about setting Sherlock's progress back. 

It's just them, just the two of them and Sherlock is not broken and Mycroft is not a set back.


End file.
